


This Great Divide

by cecropia



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Evan Hansen & Zoe Murphy Friendship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mentions of Miguel, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pen Pals, Rating May Change, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, rated teen and up for mentions of suicidal tendencies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-08-23 20:37:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20216770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecropia/pseuds/cecropia
Summary: The penpals AU no one asked for.'Half of Evan is so fucking grateful that Dr. Sherman is the way that he is, and that he seems to just have access to an entire network of mentally ill teens that Evan can chat to on the internet to pretend like he’s a functioning human being who has more than one friend, but the other half of him feels kind of guilty for constantly checking his laptop or his phone to see if he has any new emails. Because then old crotchety people stare at him like he has ‘666’ tattooed on his forehead every time he unlocks his phone, and then he gets nervous and puts his phone away but then he can’t distract his racing mind so his thoughts just spiral even more than they usually do and he ends up having a panic attack and regrets even stepping outside of his house in the first place.'





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HIIIIIIIIIIIII  
here we go fam, another chaptered fic. as usual, let me know if u like it and if you'd like to see more!!  
<333
> 
> come talk to me! c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a on tumblr :-)  


A lot of older people like to blame millennials for the uprise of technology and the fact that it’s ‘taken over the world’, and it’s taken over the world so much that people get hit by cars when they’re crossing the street because they have their eyes glued to their cell phone, and even entire _ identities _ are stolen because some ‘idiot’ invented credit cards, or whatever old people are mad about these days. 

But Evan Hansen blames one Dr. Barry Sherman. 

Not for corrupting, like, the entirety of humanity, of course. Just for corrupting _ Evan_. 

His intentions were pure, sure. And half of Evan is so fucking grateful that Dr. Sherman is the way that he is, and that he seems to just have access to an entire network of mentally ill teens that Evan can chat to on the internet to pretend like he’s a functioning human being who has more than one friend, but the other half of him feels kind of guilty for constantly checking his laptop or his phone to see if he has any new emails. Because then old crotchety people stare at him like he has _ ‘666’ _ tattooed on his forehead every time he unlocks his phone, and then he gets nervous and puts his phone away but then he can’t distract his racing mind so his thoughts just spiral even more than they usually do and he ends up having a panic attack and regrets even stepping outside of his house in the first place.

His mom was a fan of this idea, at first.

‘_This is _ perfect_, honey,_’ She had told him as they pushed open the front doors of Dr. Sherman’s office, detailed consent forms and a list of participating emails in his mother’s hands, ‘_This is what I was talking about! Put yourself out there, make some friends! And this is all on the internet, too! This is going to be so great for you, Evan. I’m so excited.’ _

Oh, how that attitude has changed. 

Now that Evan’s actually _ put himself out there _ and _ seized the day, _ actually found someone who he enjoys talking to and who enjoys talking to him (he’s pretty sure), his mother has seemingly changed her mind. She’s almost never around during Evan’s waking hours, but every time she is she tsks at him and makes some offhand comment about _ you kids and your technology, always on your phones _.

“Evan, honey, did you hear me?”

Evan looks up suddenly, blinking a couple of times like that’ll enhance his retrieval abilities even though he absolutely wasn’t listening to a word his mother has said for the past ten minutes.

“Um. No?”

He fiddles with the cell phone in his hands, flipping it over and over. No emails. It’s almost 8pm.

She doesn’t even have to say anything. The look in her eyes contains everything he needs to know. “Will you _ please _ put your phone down for a minute? This is important.”

He sighs in defeat, not loud enough for his mother to hear but loud enough to make a point to himself, and gently sets his phone down next to his empty plate.

“I know. I’m sorry. Just… waiting on something.”

“Texting a friend?” Heidi perks up, sitting up straight and plastering a smile on her face. It looks like she might be tearing up a little.

“Y-yeah, actually.” It’s not totally a lie. Sure, he’s never really met his penpal of sorts and Evan has no idea what he looks like or what his last name is or what his favorite color is— but he’s a friend. Kind of. 

“That’s so great.” She gives him one of those smiles that Evan’s learned are her pity smiles, like the kind of smile you give to a stray cat as it rubs against your legs because you know you can’t take it home and give it a good life because it has lice and fleas and you probably can’t afford to even have a cat, or something. 

Evan just nods.

“But anyways, Evan, I really think you could nail these! You’ve always been an excellent writer, and…”

Evan zones out, nodding at the appropriate times and humming in agreement. He’s heard this so many times before, he can probably predict what she’s going to say next. Something about all the potential he has and how they’re gonna need all the help they can get, because she scraped her way through college with barely any money and she wants to do the best she can for Evan. So he can lead a better life than her. 

And Evan knows he should be looking into college since it’s the summer before his senior year, but it still feels like it’s all happening too soon. Like maybe he should take a gap year to make some money so his mom doesn’t have to work as hard, or just not go to college at all and live with his mother for the rest of his life. 

Tempting, but ultimately a terrible idea. 

“... so you’ll work on them this weekend? We could always go out for dinner and brainstorm over some pancakes, huh?” She nudges his hand.

Evan nods. “Yeah, sounds great.”

He tries to ignore how her face falls at his unenthusiastic reply.

“It’s a date, then.” He only gets a glimpse of her fake smile before her phone starts incessantly buzzing from inside her purse, and Evan already knows what’s about to happen. It feels like fucking groundhog day. 

“Shoot,” His mom mumbles under her breath, standing up and rushing to the counter. 

He takes this moment of her inattention to check his phone. 

Still no emails. But it’s not like Evan’s worrying or anything.

“I’m sorry, honey, I’ve gotta run. Brenda’s baby is sick and you know that if I don’t pick up her shift I won’t be able to…”

Evan tries to teleport to his room or his backyard or anywhere that isn’t here. It doesn’t work. 

“... I’m so sorry, Evan.” She leans backward to check the timer on the stove, keys and purse in hand. “The lasagna has five minutes left, okay? Don’t forget it’s in there. And I want you to _ eat some_, alright? No more of this ‘_I wasn’t hungry_’ crap.” She has a playful smile on her face. It’s fake.

“Okay,” Evan agrees, because that’s all he can do.

“I love you, honey.” She’s lingering at the front door, looking at him like he’s a vase on the edge of a table. Like she’s afraid she’ll break him or something. 

“You too,” Evan calls back, trying his best to give her a believable smile. 

It works, because she shuts the door behind her and then Evan’s alone again. 

His natural state. Loneliness. 

It takes another hour, some pacing, and some lukewarm lasagna for Evan’s phone to finally buzz from beside him on the couch. 

Subject: Therapy Letter 8/15/17

To: Evan-Hansen99@gmail.com

From: headhighfistsdown@gmail.com

Dear Evan Hansen,

Today was an amazing day and here’s why:

Because today, I managed not to off myself. 

Seriously, Hansen, it’s a fucking miracle. 

The long story is very long, but the short version is this: I might get expelled from delinquent summer school because I’m fucking gay and can’t keep my mouth shut. And I’m supposed to be done in _ a week_. 

The one time I tried do something nice for a friend, it backfired on me. So I’m never doing another good deed again, I guess. 

I don’t even know why I decided to go off script and care about someone in the first place. Based on his recent decisions, it’s not like he ever actually gave a shit about me. 

In other news, my sister is a bitch and so is my dad. My mom’s the only one I can stand today. At least she _ acts _ like she believes it wasn’t my weed. 

Hope your day was “amazing”. 

Sincerely, 

Me

Evan’s phone times out and he notices in the reflection of the screen that he’s actually smiling. Like, full-on teeth and eyes smiling. 

Connor’s the only one who can do that to him these days. 

And it’s crazy because they’ve only been emailing since the beginning of the summer, but it feels like Evan’s known him for forever. He knows almost everything about this kid, and for the first time it feels like Evan might have made a real, genuine connection with someone. And the only reason he chose Connor to email out of that big long list of people is because he wanted to ask what his email meant. 

It’s funny how things work out. 

Everyone else’s were simple: usually a name and birth year, or sometimes a nickname like ‘princess’ or ‘dickmachine’. 

Evan avoided that one, obviously. 

But Connor’s just stuck out for some reason. He wasn’t sure why, but that phrase just seemed so… possible. Head high, fists down. Something Evan wants to be. Someone who can hold his head high and always choose pacifism, always do the right thing even if it’s hard. 

So he emailed Connor a very overly-formal letter that Dr. Sherman approved of. And Connor wrote back.

Connor likes classic literature, Evan had learned. It’s Connor’s favorite quote from _ To Kill A Mockingbird. _

Evan shakes himself out of his thoughts and quickly types a reply. 

Subject: Re: Therapy Letter 8/15/17

To: headhighfistsdown@gmail.com

From: Evan-Hansen99@gmail.com

Dear Connor I-Still-Don’t-Know-Your-Last-Name,

Today was absolutely not an amazing day, and here’s why:

My mom wants to talk about college. It makes me break out in hives. To be completely _ completely _ honest, I don’t really picture myself in college. Or surviving until college. But I can’t really tell my mom that. Or Barry, because he’s a mandated reporter. 

(I hope Barry doesn’t decide to read more than the subject line one day.)

Anyway, my friend decided to visit me at work today which was nice. I’m kind of worried about her. She didn’t seem like herself. And she also never visits me at work. 

Sorry about your friend. I hope you don’t get expelled over his sorry ass. He doesn’t deserve you anyway. 

Please tell me the long version of the weed story. My life is so boring. 

Sincerely,

Me

After he hits send, his thoughts still linger on one thing. 

Zoe. 

He should text her. Ask her why she’s being so weird, or if she’s okay, or if she needs to talk or something. Or if she’d like it if he came and visited her at work. 

_ Not that she even needs to work_. Evan shakes his head again, running his fingers through his hair. He’s not that bitter. Yeah, she has a good life, but she’s never rubbed it in his face or anything. She’s only ever been humble and silent about it, and from what she’s told Evan, being rich isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. She seems miserable every time money is even mentioned. 

He should text her. 

He types out, _ ‘are you okay? _ ’, but quickly deletes that because it’s too forward. Maybe an _ ‘are u ok?’ _would be better. That’s more casual. But then Evan would be assuming something’s wrong, and maybe nothing’s wrong at all. Maybe she’s just having an off day. Maybe she’s cramping a lot today. Maybe she’s just tired or something. 

So he deletes that message too and settles on, _ ‘hey, how was your day? _’. And he feels kind of bad because yeah, he wants to know how her day was, but his real intentions are to see if she’s alright. He’s being sneaky. Evan Hansen is not sneaky, not usually. 

Either way, he’s already sent the message and eaten his shitty lasagna, and he stifles a yawn as he checks the blinking time on the broken DVR. It’s way too early to be yawning, but talking about college is so fucking draining and Evan wants nothing but to cuddle up in bed and watch a Netflix documentary. 

So he does. After he does the dishes, of course. He’s not an animal. 

It takes a full half hour for Zoe to reply. 

**Zoe**: hey. it was alright. 

The first warning sign is the use of periods. She never ends her sentences with periods, not unless she’s upset. This, Evan can say for sure. 

**Evan**: you’re using periods

**Zoe**: yeah. and?

**Evan**: is everything ok?

She starts typing, the little bubble with the ellipses popping up, but then it disappears. She starts typing again, and then stops. If Evan watches any more of this he’s going to freak the hell out. 

So he turns back to his documentary and tries not to focus on his twitching fingers and restless legs. 

He’s surprised when he feels a buzz only seconds later, but. 

It’s not Zoe. 

Subject: Re: Therapy Letter 8/15/17

To: Evan-Hansen99@gmail.com

From: headhighfistsdown@gmail.com

Dear Evan Hansen,

Re: the college thing: I can relate. So much. My mom is looking at this fancy art school for me but it’s not like I can tell her that she doesn’t need to waste the money. And get her hopes up. I can promise that in one way or another, I will not be around her when I’m 18. 

Wow. Morbid start. 

My “friend” stashed weed in his locker, okay? The school found it, his dad is a piece of shit who would literally kill him if he got kicked out of summer school, and he came to my house crying so I guess I just decided that I don’t matter as much as him and I took the blame for it. But whatever. He didn’t care. Now that I’m getting expelled he’s acting like he doesn’t know me so it’ll be less suspicious. But get this: he still wants to sneak in my window at night when no one’s watching. 

I’m not fucking stupid. I know he’s ashamed of me. He probably planned this so he wouldn’t have to be seen with me anymore. 

There’s the long, depressing story. You’re welcome. 

Your “friend”, huh? If your version of “friend” is the same as mine in the previous email, then I’m going to need some details. Good details; I’m the only one who’s allowed to be vague here.

Sincerely,

Me

Well, damn. 

And again, he’s thinking about Zoe. And, like, here’s the thing: Evan doesn’t like Zoe like that. Sure, he used to, back when she was just a beautiful face floating around their middle school, toting her baby blue guitar around like it was her job. But then some kid in their science class called Evan a name and Zoe called that kid a name under her breath in retaliation and got sent to the principal’s office all because of Evan, and so of course he needed to go apologize to her for causing her so much trouble, and. 

And she sort of became like his sister after that. He can’t really imagine what it would be like if she wasn’t his best friend. 

He’d be stuck with Jared Kleinman as his only (family) friend. Evan represses a shiver. 

Just as he’s about to type a reply to Connor, his phone buzzes with a text from Zoe. 

**Zoe**: stupid stuff. nothing to worry about :-)

Evan’s not convinced. He knows what needs to be done. 

**Evan**: my mom hides Hershey bars in her sock drawer 

Zoe reads it, hesitates, and then there’s that familiar typing bubble again. It disappears. Reappears. 

**Zoe**: be there in five. 

Evan glances at the clock on his laptop, and then back at his phone. Is five minutes enough time to write a well thought out reply to Connor? He obviously needs a friend right now, and thinking up genuine advice and well wishes in less than five minutes is something Evan doesn’t think he can handle. 

Sure, he could just type it out when she’s here. But then his attention would be away from her when she needs him and— and then she would ask what he’s typing because it would take a long time and then he’d have to _ tell her_. 

He’s not ashamed of Connor. That’s not it. 

He’d have to tell her that his therapist thinks he’s a loser and assigned him a friend to talk to. At this point it doesn’t really feel like an assignment, but it’s embarrassing enough that he’d like to keep it to himself.

Sometimes he wishes he could tell her all about Connor and how funny he is and how much she’d love him if she knew him, how good of an addition he would be to their little group, but. Zoe doesn’t think before she speaks, is the thing. She’s very blunt. And she presses until she gets the answers she wants. And Evan loves that about her, he does, but if Jared got even a _ whiff _ of Evan’s pitiful friend assignment, he’d be the butt of the joke for years. It wouldn’t end. The whole school would know. 

He hears a quiet knock at the front door and jumps where he’s sitting on the couch, cursing his mind and body for being so on-edge all the time. 

He’ll just sneak away to the bathroom to email Connor back. It’ll be fine.

… 

“It just feels like my family doesn’t care about me anymore.”

“What do you mean? If— if you don’t mind me asking.”

Zoe blows out a sigh, leaning back against Evan’s pillows and taking a bite of her chocolate bar. “Okay, so… don’t get mad.”

Evan scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. “I… won’t?”

“Okay, good. So… I have a confession.”

Evan’s mind immediately assumes the worst. She killed someone. She actually hates Evan and has just been stringing him along this whole time. She killed someone, like _ recently, _and she wants Evan to help her get rid of the body. “Just tell me before I freak out.”

“Alright, alright. So… I have a sibling.”

Evan freezes, shaking his head. “What?”

Zoe groans, rests her head in her palms. “Yeah. I have… an older sibling, okay?” She looks back up at him. “And the only reason I didn’t want to tell you is because he’s, like… the bane of my existence. He’s awful.”

Evan just blinks at her. 

“You have… a sibling. Okay.” He clears his throat. “How— um, _how_ long have we been friends?”

“Ugh, I’m sorry.” She looks ashamed. Zoe reaches out and rests her hand on Evan’s arm. “It really isn’t anything about you, okay? He just… _ embarrasses _ me. I don’t want to be associated with him.”

Evan's mind starts to wander. What if this mysterious Murphy sibling, like... killed someone, or something? What if he's huge and muscular and has a beard and has a lot of tattoos and piercings and... how much older is he? Is he, like, thirty? What if... 

Evan nods, pushing himself out of his mind. “Okay, so… _ that’s _ why you’ve never invited me to your house?”

Zoe cracks a smile. “Yeah, I guess. Also, if you ever met my parents you’d never want to speak to me again. They’re almost worse than my brother.”

“Right.”

“Anyway, my brother’s, like… the worst. So my family is always focused on him and it just feels like… it feels like they’ve forgotten about me.” Zoe purses her lips like she’s trying to keep a strong look on her face. Like she doesn’t want to show Evan she’s hurting.

If she’s trying to keep it light, Evan will too. “Maybe you should, like… vandalize something. That’ll— that’ll definitely get their attention.”

Zoe gives him a half-hearted smile. “Maybe I should.”

It goes quiet. Evan’s not sure what to say.

“I’m sorry your brother’s a dick.”

That elicits the response Evan was looking for. Zoe snorts, rolling her eyes and pulling at Evan’s laptop. “I don’t wanna talk about this anymore. What are we watching?”

“Wait—”

“A nature documentary? I should’ve known. Wait until Jared hears about _ this— _”

“Please don’t.”

“Consider it done.”

“_ Zoe— _”

She snickers, pressing play and settling back into the covers. “Shush, Evan, I’m trying to learn about hibernation.”

Evan sighs in defeat. He scooches closer to her, handing her another candy bar. 

And as she takes it out of his hand, happily unwrapping it and breaking it apart, the only thing Evan can think about is how much Connor hates chocolate. He despises it, even. 

And… he’s thinking about Connor again. Over these past couple of months, Evan’s actually started _caring_ about his digital friend. He looks forward to hearing about Connor’s life and sort of living life vicariously through Connor’s experiences, and that sounds really fucking dumb, but it’s true. And the fact that there’s an email sitting in his inbox that Evan hasn’t replied to is making him feel guilty and sad and… he misses Connor, really, as stupid as it sounds. He’s always there for him even though he barely even knows Evan, and as much as Evan loves Zoe, she never really wants to talk about things that bother her. And Evan doubts she wants to listen to him blab about things that bother him. But Evan can tell Connor about things that happen that seem so insignificant but weigh on Evan’s shoulders and Connor _ gets it, _ he understands what it’s like to have a mental illness and he knows what it’s like to go to therapy and he just. Gets Evan. 

He glances over at Zoe again.

“I’m, um— I’ll be right back, uh, I have to… use the bathroom. I’ll be back.” She gives him a quizzical look but shrugs her shoulders anyway. 

“Want me to pause it?”

“Oh, uh— it’s. It’s fine, I’ll just be a second.”

She narrows her eyes at him. He feels his palms start to sweat. “‘Kay.” 

He’s got to get better at lying to people.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he jabs at the home button and unlocks his phone, swiping furiously at the slow-loading screen until it finally decides to cooperate, all the anger fades to confusion. 
> 
> No messages.
> 
> He does, however, have three new emails. Three of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my GOD THIS FIC ISN'T DEAD??????  
hi hello wassup it's me, ya girl, back again after *checks imaginary watch* three fuckin' months
> 
> warnings for implied sexual content, self-loathing, slight self harm and cursing. bc it's connor.
> 
> let me know what u think!!!

Zoe has decided to sneak out of the house again. For the third time this week. 

But it’s not like Connor’s counting. 

The thing that bugs him about it is that when it’s _ him _ sneaking out of the house at an ungodly hour, either it’s Zoe that snitches on him because she just seems to have this endless sea of hatred toward him, or his parents somehow snuck a camera into his bedroom when he wasn’t there. 

He wouldn’t put it past them, truly, but he’s always assumed it was Zoe. It _ had _ to be her. There’s no way his parents would be able to find out. It’s not like they’re constantly monitoring him. Sure, they always glance at him out of the corner of their eyes every time he fucking _ breathes_, but if he’s silent enough they eventually stop paying attention. It’s only when he makes himself visible that they look at him long enough to tell him to calm down or to go somewhere else.

Now he’s paranoid.

Either way, Connor’s never really been the center of positive attention.

And because of this recent event with Miguel, digital human Evan Hansen is all he has left. Someone Connor doesn’t even know and who doesn’t know him, not really, because Connor can shift and edit things when he’s typing. He’s hiding behind a computer screen. Sure, he’s never really _ lied _ to Evan Hansen, but if Evan knew him in real life? It would be a completely different story. 

Evan would leave just like Miguel did.

Fucking _ Miguel_. Connor’s blood starts to boil just thinking about him; his stupid face and his stupid fucking lip piercing and his hair and how it curls at the ends and the way he gives Connor that lopsided smile when they’re being mischievous and the way his stupid fucking stubble always scratches Connor’s chin when they’re—

The immediate pulse of rage through Connor’s bloodstream is so sudden and so intense that he doesn’t even notice when his head slams back against his wall, the violent _ crack _ sound reaching his ears before he feels any sort of sensation at all. But then he’s cursing with the sudden rush of pain, clutching at the back of his head and wondering why the fuck he had to go and slam his head against the wall like a psychopath. He could just be fucking _ normal_. That would be nice. 

He tries to blink open his eyes, but the throbbing in his head seems to force them shut again. His fingers brush along the back of his head and Connor winces, but as he examines his fingers there’s no blood, which is a plus. Must just be a bad bruise. And thank _ god _ Connor had decided to hurt himself somewhere Dr. Sherman never bothers to look, because he doesn’t know if he can handle another conversation about how he _ shouldn’t treat himself like that, he doesn’t deserve it. _

Yeah, right.

Eventually he’s able to crack open his eyes, but not before flipping the light off because it hurts but then he’s just staring at the blue light of his phone and it’s kind of worse.

He did this to himself, he realizes. Might as well deal with it.

But when his phone buzzes in his hand he kind of hates himself a little bit for the small bubble of hope that builds in his chest that maybe, just maybe, it’s Miguel, and maybe he’s apologizing for how he abandoned Connor after the whole expulsion incident. Maybe he’s texting to tell Connor that he turned himself in and that he’s running away from his foster family to go live in fucking Guatemala or something and he wants Connor to come with him.

Not likely, but a guy can dream.

The part that’s surprising is that it actually _ is _ Miguel who texted him. The part that’s not surprising is the fact that the text consists of just one short question:

  
  


**M**: wyd?

  
  


And like, listen. Connor’s not the most confident, obviously. He hates himself and his body and his face and his personality more than he’d ever outwardly admit to anyone, but he knows when he’s being used. He’s aware. These kinds of messages used to make him happy, surprisingly enough, because that meant that someone wanted to see him, someone wanted to be around him and talk to him and _ touch _ him and for a little while, Connor was able to believe that he was worth something. That he had a purpose, even if it wasn’t very significant. 

But these texts are all he gets now. He used to get daily morning messages, like _ hey how are u feeling today _ or _ ready to fuck shit up? _ But now his partner in crime has to play nice and be home for dinner because his reputation is on shaky ground, and now that Connor thinks back on it, he’s never actually even met Miguel’s foster family besides the time in the administrator’s office. He’s never been invited over. It’s like Connor was something Miguel has always wanted to hide, and now that his family knows about Connor it’s like he never existed in the first place. Not to Miguel, not to the school, not to anyone. Like all he is is just some druggie that forced the sweet, innocent foster child to stash his weed in his locker. That’s it.

And thinking back even further, Connor doesn’t remember a single instance where the two of them met up alone and didn’t end up having some form of sex. Maybe that’s all it ever was to Miguel.

It would explain this whole situation, really. Maybe Miguel’s foster dad isn’t actually abusive, maybe he made it all up so Connor would take the blame. Maybe Miguel’s been using him this whole time. Maybe Connor never even _ mattered _ to him like Miguel said he did. And if that’s true, the whole thing is Connor’s fault.

Miguel warned him, back when they first met. _ I move around a lot_, he had said, _ I don’t spend too much time in once place. Don’t expect me to stay forever. _

And Connor’s the idiot that thought he was talking about _ houses_. 

He’s not sure why he answers the text. 

Actually, scratch that. He knows why. Deep, _ deep _ down, he knows why.

Connor’s weak. He’s always been weak about anything regarding Miguel, and he guesses he always will be. Right now he hates himself more than ever and he needs that validation, needs someone to touch him and tell him what he wants to hear even if he’s left lying in his bed breathless and empty of all feeling. 

At least it’s better than what he’s feeling now.

… 

It’s expected when Miguel starts pulling his shirt on and tells Connor not to text him because his dad’s keeping his phone for the night. It’s what Miguel’s been telling him every night for the past week, and Connor kept trying to convince himself it was true, that Miguel wasn’t lying, but now he can’t deny it anymore. For a second, he felt like something palpable. Something concrete, something that had meaning. And yet, Connor still feels like garbage the instant the door clicks shut behind Miguel without another word. 

Because he’s alone. Again.

It doesn’t even feel like someone else was here in this room at all.

… 

A soft knock at his door scares him out of his thoughts. He scrambles to pull his clothes on and lets out a very stressed-sounding, “_What _?” 

He immediately regrets it, though, because the only person who ever knocks softly and who even knocks at all is his mother. And she kind of hesitates before gently pushing open his door, peeking around the corner and giving Connor one of those pity smiles that he’s come to hate over the years. Not that he doesn’t appreciate her intentions, but he feels like they’ve sort of morphed from genuine to forced in the past couple of months. 

“Hey,” She says gently, like she’s afraid of him. “How are you doing?”

She doesn’t want to hear the real answer, but Connor will humor her for now. 

“Fine,” He says shortly, sitting up in bed. He crosses his legs and scoots closer to his headboard. She stays on script, sits down next to him like his bed is made out of fucking legos or something. Like she can’t even breathe or everything will come crumbling down and Connor will just fall apart right in front of her. 

Connor picks at his nail polish.

Cynthia’s silent, which is unusual. Connor doesn’t want to look at her, doesn’t want to be the first one to talk because he knows what she’s about to say. The unspoken words are just threatening to fall from her mouth, Connor can feel it. The only question is when.

“We have to talk about this, Connor,” She says eventually. 

Connor’s gaze is unfocused, staring straight ahead. He’s never noticed the scuff marks in the corner where he kicks off his boots every day. They’re kind of fitting.

Cynthia sighs, flattens out the wrinkles in her pants. “We’re sending you to Lakeview this year. They’re the only ones who would accept you with your record and actually allow you to graduate with your classmates.”

The words sit heavy in Connor’s stomach, but he doesn’t bat an eye. “With Zoe,” He tries to say bitterly, but it just comes out monotone.

He sees his mother nod out of the corner of his eye. 

“It’s your senior year, Connor. Please, just…” His mother tries to suppress her sigh, but Connor picks up on it anyway. “Let’s just get through this year, okay?”

It’s not like he can just tell his mom that he’s most likely not going to make it through the rest of the summer, so he just nods again. Empty. 

Cynthia pats his knee two times. “Dr. Sherman wants to see you before school starts. I made you an appointment for next week, okay?”

“Yup.”

“Connor, look at me.”

It takes him a moment to process that she’s still talking to him. It feels like a thousand weights are around his neck when he lifts his head just the slightest bit, meeting his mother’s worried eyes. He lifts his eyebrows in question.

“I know it’s been… not good. For us. But I think… the work you and Dr. Sherman are doing is really going to help you in the long run, okay?” 

The look in her eyes is like she’s begging him to agree. Like if he doesn’t she’s going to give up on him for good, like Larry and his stupid sister.

“Yeah.”

“And…” His mom hesitates. “And I know it… it’s probably hard going behind your dad’s back about this, but… I think this is going to help you. You’re already doing so much _ better_, sweetheart, he. I don’t know how he doesn’t see it.”

Connor almost laughs. “He doesn’t _ care_.”

Cynthia takes a deep breath. “He _ does_, he just… has a hard time showing it, okay? And I’m sure if… if he didn’t have so much on his plate he’d be excited about getting you therapy and all the progress you’re making. But he’s just… so busy with work these days. Sometimes he’s...”

“Yeah.”

She studies him carefully and it’s like he’s looking into his own eyes. Guarded, pretending. 

“This will be good,” She decides with a nod. “We will get through this.”

He highly, _ highly _ doubts that.

Connor returns to staring at his knees. 

He nods anyway. 

…

Subject: Re: Therapy Letter 8/15

To: headhighfistsdown@gmail.com

From: Evan-Hansen99@gmail.com

Dear Connor,

Today’s going to be a great day and here’s why:

Because it’s still summer, thank god.

One more week. End me.

It’s not like summer is great, but it’s better than being pushed around by everyone, even though I’m basically already invisible. You think people don’t see you until you’re being cornered in the bathroom by a bunch of baseball dudebros in khaki shorts. 

The friend I mentioned earlier is actually my friend. Nothing secretive going on there. In middle school when we first became friends I was obsessed with her, because no one else had ever treated me that well, and I guess I kind of confused it with being in love with her. Then she became sort of like a sister to me. It’s really weird to think about her as anything else. 

Sorry for the late email. I hope your night is going okay.

Sincerely, 

Me

… 

Connor skips the next day’s email. Dr. Sherman can suck it. 

His digital best friend Evan Hansen doesn’t skip it, though, because he’s actually a decent person unlike his shitty penpal who can’t even manage to get out of bed for days on end. The shitty part, though, the part that makes him feel sick to his stomach, is the fact that Evan Hansen asked if he was _ okay_. 

This kid, this stupid mentally ill kid who doesn’t even know who Connor is, is checking up on him. Asking how he’s doing. Asking if he needs to talk about anything. And besides his mother, who’s incessantly checking up on him out of pure habit, no one else has done that. No one. Not a single person. Not his sister, not his dad, not even Miguel. Miguel texts him a couple of times over the next couple of days, sure, but Connor doesn’t even open them. He just lets them sit there on his phone, taking up space; he doesn’t even read them. He doesn’t have to, really. He knows what they’re going to say. He’s not going to be _ checking on him_, that’s for fucking sure. 

Probably asking if he can come over, if he can fuck Connor’s pain away for the fourth time this week, but. Connor doesn’t have the mental capacity to even lie to himself and say that he’s worth being wanted these days. 

To be fair to the people around him, it’s not unusual for Connor to go ghost like this. Sometimes he just… drives. He gets in his car and drives, as far away as he can, for hours at a time. He’s driven out of state a couple of times. So he doesn’t really blame them for not checking up on him, not worrying. 

But this time it’s different. The self-loathing is threatening to swallow him whole, these morbid thoughts picking at his brain over and over until all he can do is just lay in bed, curled in on himself, blanket over his head, and let himself be sucked into the swirling vortex of never ending sorrow. And he knows he’s just being dramatic, that it’s all in his head and he doesn’t even deserve to be thinking about himself for this long because he’s just that shitty of a human being, but it’s like he can’t stop. His brain won’t _ stop_. 

That’s usually when he gets angry. 

Not at his parents for not caring, not at his sister for not loving him, not at Miguel for abandoning him, but at himself. For not being good enough, no matter what he does. No matter how many fucking therapy sessions he has to endure, or how many stupid pointless emails he has to send to a person who’s only pretending to care about him. He’s still not good enough for anyone. And he doubts he ever will be. 

But this time… he can’t find it in himself to be angry. He can’t even cry. He just stares at the wall, letting the hours pass and only moving to go take a piss or to stretch out his aching muscles. 

His phone buzzes. Miguel again, probably. 

Moving seems like a lot of effort. 

Another buzz. Miguel must _really_ want dick. 

Connor still doesn’t move. It’s like his bones are made of titanium. 

When he feels another buzz coming from beneath his pillow, the anger explodes out of him in a quick burst and he yanks the phone out from underneath his head, shaking hands gripping it tightly and for a second he almost throws it at the fucking wall, but then he decides to chuck his pillow against the wall instead. He doesn’t need Larry bursting into his room because Connor decided to make a noise and act like he _ exists _ for once. 

When he jabs at the home button and unlocks his phone, swiping furiously at the slow-loading screen until it finally decides to cooperate, all the anger fades to confusion.

No messages. 

He's even more sad, if it’s possible. Miguel hasn’t messaged him today. 

Hopeless. Connor’s hopeless. 

He does, however, have three new emails. _ Three _ of them. 

It’s a thread. 

  
  


Subject: Therapy Letter 8/17

To: headhighfistsdown@gmail.com

From: Evan-Hansen99@gmail.com

Dear Connor,

Today’s going to be an amazing day and here’s why:

Because I don’t have to go see Dr. Sherman for another week. My mom wanted me to see him before I go back to school, and of course, it did nothing productive. As usual. 

If possible, I think it made me feel worse. All we did was talk about how much of a failure this summer was, because I was only an apprentice park ranger and I didn’t make money even though all I did was follow Barry’s advice about ‘following my dreams’ and ‘doing something I love’. I thought it was a big deal that I even got out of the house, but I guess since I didn’t make money it’s all worthless. Just like me. 

I haven’t gotten an email from you in a couple of days. I’m still open if you need to talk. Honestly, I was enjoying hearing about your life and having someone to talk to. I hope Barry didn’t decide that you don’t need a penpal anymore. 

Talk to you soon?

Sincerely, 

Me

  
  


And then, right after that one:

  
  


Subject: Re: Therapy Letter 8/17

To: headhighfistsdown@gmail.com

From: Evan-Hansen99@gmail.com

If Barry did decide that you don’t need a penpal anymore, I’m not saying that I’m not glad that you’re getting better. I am. It would just mean that we don’t talk anymore and that’s what I meant when I implied that it was a bad thing. Sorry.

Sincerely,

Me

  
  


And then:

  
  


Subject: Re: Re: Therapy Letter 8/17

To: headhighfistsdown@gmail.com

From: Evan-Hansen99@gmail.com

Also, sorry I’m being so clingy. You don’t have to reply to these if you don’t want to. I don’t even know why I sent that last email. Please tell me to shut up. 

Sincerely,

Me

  
  


Connor blinks at his phone a couple of times. Furrows his brow. Feels the corner of his lip twitch upward. 

And then another notification pops up, and. Connor doesn’t know what to think, honestly. He feels angry that this kid is sending so many fucking emails about shit that Connor doesn’t even find offensive, like, in any capacity; and a part of him is sad that it’s not Miguel, even if all Miguel wants him for is sex; and he’s… excited. The tiniest little cell deep in his heart, just an atom, is happy that Evan went through the trouble of emailing him three— now _ four— _ times in a row when the requirement is one. One a day. That’s it. 

Connor shouldn’t get his hopes up. This is an _ assignment_. Evan’s not his friend. 

The newest email from Evan isn’t on the same thread. In fact, it isn’t even from the same email. 

  
  


Subject: last one I promise

To: headhighfistsdown@gmail.com

From: ehansen1999@yahoo.com

Dear Connor,

Hey, it’s me again. For the millionth time. 

Please ignore this if you’re not interested, but I was serious about being here if you need to talk things out. This is my main email, because as you know I’m a ball of anxious energy, and I made a new email for therapy because I didn’t want anyone to somehow be able to hack into this one even though I don’t have anything questionable on here my mind just likes to tell me that somehow I’d have incriminating evidence about myself on this email so I just. Made my other email for therapy use only. 

Long story short, I’m insane. 

But anyway, if you ever want to _ actually _ talk, you can send messages to this email account. That way Dr. Sherman won’t see it. You can be as real as you want. I won’t judge.

It’s not as creepy as it sounds, I promise. I just know what it’s like to feel alone and I wouldn’t wish it on anybody, so on the off chance that you’re feeling alone, here’s… this. Me. 

Again, please feel free to delete this. This is totally weird and so am I so if you never want to talk to me again, I get it. No hard feelings.

Sincerely,

Me

  
  


Connor’s unsure how long he sits there, just staring at his phone. Taking it all in. 

Somehow… Connor’s made Evan feel obligated to watch out for him. Somehow. And… for some fucking reason, Connor feels a sense of obligation to look out for Evan. Evan Hansen, who sent him a total of four emails because he’s worried about what Connor thinks of him.

Because he _ cares_. 

Maybe. 

Probably not. 

Connor wants to slap himself in the face when a single thought enters his mind, swirls around a bit, and then lands front and center in his brain. Blaring. 

_ Message him back. _

It’s stupid. Evan obviously just feels bad for him, and he’s worried that Connor has finally offed himself, and that’s why he’s reaching out. To make it look like he’s a good person if he finds out that Connor did, in fact, kill himself. It’s not for Connor. It’s for _ him_. 

But Connor’s always been a selfish person. It’s in his nature; he’s a Murphy. 

And he’s lonely, and he’s desperate, and Evan’s offering to listen to his bullshit more often than he already has to and Connor would be lying to himself if he claimed that he doesn’t find the thought at least a little bit intriguing. 

And he doesn’t want to admit it to himself, but the idea of talking to Evan more in general is kind of exciting. Just a little bit. Evan likes self-deprecating jokes and dark humor and he’s fucking _ funny _ and just a touch weird, just like Connor, and. If he can pretend that he’s desirable for the few minutes that Miguel’s on top of him, he can pretend that Evan actually wants to be his friend for long enough to send a fucking email. 

So, fuck it. 

  
  


Subject: Re: last one I promise

To: ehansen1999@yahoo.com

From: headhighfistsdown@gmail.com

Dear Evan Hansen,

OK.

Sincerely, 

Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *will roland voice* riiiIIGHT, one of those SeCrEt eMaiL AcCoUnTs that u use to send pICTUREs of ur PENISES to each other


End file.
